


because you're mine

by EmeraldSage



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Cold War, Drinking, Getting Back Together, I Put A Spell On You, Karaoke, M/M, Problematic Break Up, implied/referenced past relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-26
Updated: 2020-11-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:54:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27727753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmeraldSage/pseuds/EmeraldSage
Summary: If Ivan forgot that everything he was was Alfred's, and everything that was Alfred washis, then Alfred would just have to remind him.Relationships were a two way street, after all, and Alfred was done letting Ivan push him away without letting go.
Relationships: America/Russia (Hetalia)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 42





	because you're mine

**Author's Note:**

> I would say I don't know where this came from, except I do. Thanks to my enabler, Usagi323, who, as always, derails me into an entirely different world. My NaNoWriMo projects are waving at me sadly.
> 
> But Possessive!Alfred is a rare treat to be savored. Please, do enjoy.

The jazzy blues curled soothingly in his ear, a flimsy barrier against the well of his temper brewing under his skin. Scowl dark, ignoring the rest of the world socializing nearby, he watched the amber drink swirl and swish around in his glass as he twisted it. 

The lounge was lovely and dim, the atmosphere nicely soothing. The jazz band playing on stage were exceeding all expectations he could’ve had. The food was good, the drinks were better, and yet, there was nothing that could pacify the irritation bubbling inside him.

The week-long conference was over, and the nations of the world were finally out relaxing. They were  _ socializing,  _ making nice with each other after a week of shouting, arguing, and passive-aggression that turned into  _ actual  _ aggression. It wasn’t one of their meetings until there was a fist-fight over the conference table, after all.

But even with it all over and done with, with only a night or two left before he could go home and shove his broken thoughts away, he couldn’t relax. He couldn’t just lock himself in his room and decompress away from the world.  _ No,  _ he had to make nice.

His boss, and Ivan’s, had asked them to pretend to get along. To  _ socialize  _ with each other, even if it only meant being in the same social space as each other. To not be together, but not avoid each other like the plague. To calm the world down.

It annoyed him, infuriated him - this facsimile of geniality. This  _ fake niceness  _ their bosses had demanded of them, to prove to the world that they weren’t going to throw themselves at a red button and destroy everything in their pursuit of victory. This facade of cordiality, or cheerful affability, of  _ togetherness-that-wasn’t-real.  _

It burned at him that they had to  _ pretend  _ to get along, as if they hadn’t spent decades together as lovers. As if the  _ century  _ before that hadn’t been crowned in friendship and trust. As if their past had never been.

It burned and boiled and  _ stung -  _ like fire in his veins and poison in his lungs. It was an old fury, an old  _ rejection,  _ that had resurfaced, lingering under his skin.

It hadn’t been Alfred, after all, who’d sundered their relationship. Who’d fallen in line with the government propaganda, who’d learned to look down on Alfred as well as America. Who’d forgotten how to separate the two - or, perhaps worse, simply hadn’t cared enough to bother with it anymore.

Alfred remembered old summer nights, in the years after the decision to finally give in. To finally give up that lingering hope of reconciliation, just a bare handful of years after the Second World War had  _ finally  _ drawn to a close. Remembered the bitter taste of lemonade and old memories as it slid down his throat, watching the sun setting on the reality of his life. Remembered being furious, at their governments for pushing them apart, at their people for succumbing so easily to the paranoia, at Ivan for going along with it…

And, perhaps, furious at himself. For letting go. For not looking past his hurt, his trauma, and his anger, to the man who’d pushed him away. For not just watching Ivan burn their bridges, but throwing fuel on the fire when he did, angry and hurt and  _ furious.  _

And perhaps more furious, still, for the knowledge that they weren’t really ex-anything. Could they be? He didn’t know, but he didn’t think so. Not when that night in Havana came to mind, the night they’d thought would be the end of the world…

_ Sweat soaked sheet twisting around pale limbs. Hands on his hips, in his hair, holding him down. Lips devouring his own, stealing breath and sound with a desperation unprecedented. The fear of the world in the back of his mind, shoved away in favor of revelling in this. _

_ Snarls turned into quiet understanding, anger burned away into a tenderness thought long forgotten. Tension and bitterness bleeding into  _ **_regret._ **

He knocked back the last of his Old Fashioned, pushing the memory away from him. At the end of the world, they would’ve come back together, forgotten all that had pushed them apart in the desperate drive for  _ one more night  _ before it all ended. He didn’t want to forget that night. That night, when he’d realized it wasn’t just him with regrets of what they could’ve been together. Regrets about the way they’d parted.

He didn’t want to forget it, but he sure as hell didn’t want  _ Ivan  _ to forget it.

Ivan, who’d reached for him first when they’d collided in Havana.

And yet, it was  _ Ivan  _ who was acting as if he was just  _ fine  _ with the way things were. Like he’d forgotten what they used to be. Like he didn’t care.

Pushing Alfred away without actually letting him go.

But what the fuck could he  _ do?  _

He could keep fucking drinking, that’s what, he thought sourly, draining another glass he hadn’t realized the bartender had refilled. Maybe it would give him some inspiration. Or maybe, at the very least, it would help him get through this god forsaken night.

The bartender obligingly mixed him up another Old Fashioned, offering him a sympathetic smile. He didn’t remember asking for one, but he shrugged it off.

He was going to regret this in the morning. Probably.

More than he regretted this entire train of thought wreaking havoc on his mental state? Unlikely.  _ Highly  _ unlikely.

Movement by the low stage in the lounge caught his eye. The live jazz band had stopped playing a little while ago, transitioning to a pre-recorded soundtrack, but someone was setting up a microphone and a prompter. He felt his lips twist downwards, curled in confusion. What was going on there?

_ “Attention to our patrons,”  _ a voice came over the intercom,  _ “Karaoke night will begin shortly. Thank you for your patience, and we hope you enjoy the rest of your evening.”  _

He could almost  _ see  _ Ivan’s grimace out of the corner of his eye, but his attention had turned squarely towards the gleaming black microphone on stage.

_ Karaoke, hmm?  _

He glanced around, but no one was watching him. No one had realized he’d noticed the karaoke announcement, or that he’d be left unsupervised with a microphone. Ivan was eyeing Yao and Arthur warily, ready to intervene, but looking so  _ done  _ with the whole world that it wouldn’t surprise Alfred if the other just let the two old men go at it. Just to get  _ some  _ entertainment out of the night.

Something fierce and hot bubbled under his skin, irate.

_ Don’t take your eyes off me,  _ it whispered, and suddenly, he knew  _ exactly  _ what he wanted to do.

He downed the rest of his drink, waved off the bartender who appeared, ready to offer him another one, and moseyed on over to the stage.

_ Don’t take your eyes off me,  _ he thought, mind flickering to violet eyes and the magic bubbling under his skin.

If Ivan had forgotten what they were to each other,  _ who  _ they belonged to, then Alfred would just have to remind him.

**.**

Honestly, if his boss hadn’t ordered him to socialize, he would’ve left already. If it wasn’t having to constantly separate Yao and Arthur before they came to blows, it was tolerating the tense looks of Western Europe, or trying to ignore the awkward tension between him and Alfred. And  _ god,  _ was it awkward.

His bosses wanted him to socialize, to not  _ reconnect,  _ but just be around Alfred. As if the last half-century hadn’t happened. As if they hadn’t been unbearable enough, not able to reconnect with his ex-lover, not being the one at his side, in his confidence. Not able to touch and taste and  _ take -  _

The Cold War was winding down, regardless of what Reagan’s early posturing said, and their bosses wanted them to  _ make nice  _ as if there wasn’t forty years of tension they had to work out. As if forty years of tension didn’t make just sitting in each other’s vicinity awkward in a haze of unspoken things.

So yes, if he had a choice, Ivan would’ve left  _ way  _ before any of his fellow nations got drunk enough to begin their usual shenanigans. And the way Alfred’s scowl got darker every hour that went by, he had no doubt he wasn’t alone in that.

At least Alfred was by the bar, he thought, though it  _ did  _ make it hard to keep track of how much the younger superpower had been drinking, it also kept the two of them apart. He didn’t think he could handle Alfred’s passive-aggressiveness right now without wrecking something. God, sometimes he really missed the way things used to be. The way they could just  _ talk  _ for hours, the way they didn’t have to force themselves to be content around each other. The way they didn’t have to  _ pretend.  _

Nothing he could do about it now, he sighed.

He only vaguely heard the announcement that came over the loudspeakers, opening the lounge for the karaoke night. The only thing he could bring himself to think was that it was  _ definitely  _ time to leave, before anyone could worsen the night with abysmal singing. While he hadn’t particularly been in the mood for the gentle jazz that had been playing in the background of the lounge during the night so far, it would be infinitely preferable to the raucousness of  _ karaoke.  _

He glanced around, almost wincing when he realized Yao and Arthur were about to go at each other’s throats again, slurred curses about opium and tea steadily gaining volume. Perfect timing, then. He frowned, though, when he finally realized that Alfred had disappeared from the bar, but pushed away the disappointment in favor of relief. If Alfred had already left, surely his bosses could excuse him leaving ahead of time.

Blessing his foresight in taking the outer edge of their booth, he made his escape. Moving up to the bar to settle his tab rather than wait for the overwhelmed waitstaff to come to him, he settled on a barstool as he waited. The slow jazz being played slowed to a stop, and he winced, realizing he hadn’t been fast enough to avoid the karaoke night.

And then, from the speakers, a voice crooned.

_ “I put a spell on you… and now you’re  _ **_mine_ ** _ -”  _

The entire lounge stilled, and Ivan felt his breath catch in his throat.  _ That voice…  _

_ “You better stop the things you do,”  _ it commanded, sultry and smooth, effortlessly enticing,  _ “I ain’t lyin’ -”  _

A shiver danced down his spine, and breathless, he turned.

Alfred hadn’t left. Oh, no, he hadn’t left at all. No, instead, Alfred was on stage, a hand gripping the mic stand as his lips brushed against the dark mesh windscreen of the microphone while he sang. He swayed to the beat, mystical and bluesy and tricksy and sweet, just like that smile. The audience, the entire  _ lounge,  _ swayed with him, enchanted. Utterly spellbound.

It wasn’t just enchanting, it was a serenade. It was a spell born of pretty red lips and the flick of a tongue, sitting pretty in the curve of that lovely smile as he sang each word, dripping in love and lust and  _ mine.  _

It was a lasso tightening around Ivan’s heart, the coil of rope delicately set in the curl of Alfred’s palm, like he wasn’t afraid someone would take it. Because Ivan would hand it back to him if they tried.

It stole his breath, bewitched him, held him captive in his awe. The lounge stood still, utterly spellbound by pretty red lips and his crooning, enchanting words, but Ivan drowned in those  _ eyes.  _ Beautiful, bewitching blue that called to him, crooned to him silently as his voice serenaded the unworthy around them both. Blue eyes that belonged to  _ Ivan,  _ but laid a claim on him in turn.

_ “I put a spell on you,”  _ his ex-lover crooned to him, eyes demanding his attention even as his spellbinding words took him captive,  _ “and now you’re mine -” _

_ All mine.  _

His jaw was hanging loose. He was goddamn lucky it wasn’t on the  _ floor,  _ with how stunned he was. How shocked. How  _ awed.  _

Ivan was utterly blindsided.

Here Alfred was, proclaiming in front of the world, that Ivan was  _ his.  _ Yes, the likelihood of anyone realizing that it was Ivan that Alfred was serenading was low, but.  _ But.  _

His highly independent ex-lover, who’d been his rival and enemy for nearly half a century, had just declared that Ivan was  _ his.  _ Such a possessive statement from a man that prided himself on his independence, on his freedom - who’d once rebelled against such possessiveness in a way that had changed the course of the  _ world -  _

It was satisfying in a way that made that instinctual, demanding part of him purr and humm in contentment, deep inside.

Alfred was claiming Ivan as his, but that wasn’t a one way street.

_ You’re mine, but I’m yours,  _ he’d all but said. If he gave himself to Alfred, he’d get everything in return.

He already had.

_ “I love you anyhow,”  _ Alfred’s voice sang, the words curling in the wound on his heart, filling it up like a salve he didn’t know he needed,  _ “And I don’t care if you don’t want me -”  _

Blue eyes caught and captured him. Violet eyes that refused to let them go.

_ “I’m yours right now, you hear me?”  _

Oh, he did. Loud and clear.

_ We need to talk, Fedya.  _ Talk and clear up their relationship. Talk and decide how they wanted to move forwards, because they clearly  _ wanted to,  _ and this time no one would stop them. No one would dare.

But first, the rest of the nations present needed to snap out of the enchantment Alfred had woven with his voice, and take the microphone away from him. And remember why they’d banned him from going near them outside of meetings.

Alfred could take over the world with his voice alone -  _ as if he wasn’t already halfway there,  _ his thoughts laughed at him - and, right now, the world wasn’t nearly sober enough to resist him.

Alfred’s lips curled, a gleam of delight burning bright in blue eyes as they caught on to the play of thoughts across Ivan’s own expression.

_ “I put a spell on you,”  _ his lover crooned, chin tilted upwards with his smile an effortless invitation for Ivan alone, as he let the magic fade from his voice,  _ “because you’re mine.”  _

**Author's Note:**

> Check out the two songs that inspired this: ["I Put a Spell on You"](https://youtu.be/GzmS4p3jXvs) by IZA and ["Bragger"](https://youtu.be/w2g24v50WrM) by Kelsea Ballerini
> 
> Also, don't be like Alfred. Drink responsibly people.


End file.
